"Nor a handsomer one," persisted Sarah, on whom the young Irishman's appearance seemed to have produced a strong impression; "there is not one like him from Ryde to Leigh."
She spoke pointedly. I felt myself redden.
"He is not half so handsome as Papa," I replied indignantly.
"Right, Margaret," observed a good-humoured voice behind us; and Cornelius O'Reilly, who had overheard the latter part of our discourse, entered the parlour as he spoke.
Sarah uttered a little scream, then hung down her head in maidenly distress; to recover from her confusion, and perhaps to linger in the room, she began to shift and rattle the tea-things, whilst Cornelius, sitting down by the table, signed me to approach. I did do so,—not very graciously, I am afraid. He took both my hands in one of his, and resting the other on my head, looked down at me with a smile. I had often seen him before, yet when I look back into the past, I find that from this autumn noon, as I stood before him with my hands in his, dates my first clear and distinct recollection of Cornelius O'Reilly.
He was then about twenty, tall, decided in manner and bearing, and strikingly handsome, with heavy masses of dark wavy hair, which he often shook back by a hasty and impatient motion. His face was characteristic, frank, and proud, with a broad brow, ardent hazel eyes, full and brilliant as those of the hawk, and arched features, which, though neither Greek nor Roman, impressed themselves on the memory as vividly as any ancient type. His look was both kind and keen; his smile pleasant and perplexing. Every one liked it, but few understood it rightly: it was so ready for raillery, so indulgent, and withal so provokingly careless. Like the face, it expressed a mobile temper, ingenuous in its very changes; a mind that yielded to every impression, and was mastered by none.
Such was then Cornelius O'Reilly; not that he seemed so to me, but the gaze of childhood is as observant as it is unreflecting, and I unconsciously noted signs of which I knew not how to read the meaning.
"Well, Margaret, how are you?" asked Cornelius, after a sufficiently long silence.
"Very well, thank you," I replied in a low tone, and making a useless effort to disengage my hands from his grasp. Without seeming to notice this, he continued, nodding at a brown-paper parcel on the table—
"There is a cake, which my sister Kate sends you, with her very kind love."